Spider-Man: Cling to Hope
by Lord Hoth
Summary: NYPD Officer Frank McDoogel faces personal tragedy with the prospect of losing one of his family members to organized crime. Without the aid of his colleagues on the force, there is only one man with the power to help, but the webslinger is dealing with a loss of his own. Timeline: After Peter and MJ's final breakup between "One More Day" and "Brand New Day"
1. A Chance Meeting

I never put much stock in the cape-and-colorful-long-johns crowd. When it comes to massive disasters and psychopaths with crazy technology, you might every now and then see one fly through on their way to wreck midtown Manhattan. But when it came to the problems of us normal guys, you can hardly expect a demigod or a billionaire to concern themselves with the problems of the mortal 99%.

My name is Francis McDoogel, a beat cop for the 14th precinct. My experience with so-called "superheroes" was limited to what I'd seen on TV and read in the Daily Bugle. Sure, I had buddies on the force who claimed to have run into Daredevil or got an assist from the Heroes for Hire. But I always thought that anyone who spends their nights in skintight suits beating up gangsters with their bare hands must have been a head case at least as serious as some of the crooks.

That all changed the night me and my partner got called to an old abandoned warehouse on 45th. The call was for a possible drug deal in progress. Little did Buddy and I know that the drug deal was between some low level street thugs and what turned out to be some Maggia from the Hammerhead family. Before I knew it, we were pinned down with nothing but a couple of barrels for cover, and the Maggia's machine guns were rapidly making that cover disappear.

I still had a couple rounds left, and I know it doesn't sound heroic, but my last thought wasn't to go down in a blaze of glory. Instead, I put my gun down and started writing a text to my wife. We'd had a bit of a spat about money before we'd gone to bed before my shift, and I really wanted to tell her and the kids how much I loved them before they got the news that my last meal was a lead sandwich.

That was when I heard the noise.

If you've never heard the noise, it's hard to describe. It sounds like something between a high-pressure squirt gun and that swish that basketball players call "nothing but net." But, for me, from now on, I'll always remember that sound as the sound of redemption. The sound of my bacon being pulled out of the fire.

The dude was so fast, if it wasn't for the sound, I never would have known he was coming. One minute, I'm saying my prayers, and the next minute he's there. Right in the middle of it all. In the darkness of the warehouse, you couldn't see the colorful costume or the weird webs he was swinging from. All you could see was the light reflected off those big bug eyes, staring creepily at you. One second he was in one spot, the next another. The Maggia were raining gunfire in a crazy hailstorm, but he weaved through them like they were dodgeballs being hurled in slow motion by fifth graders. And then he was on them, snatching the guns out of their hands like he was taking candy from babies. When he threw a punch, it looked like he barely tapped them, but the seasoned gangsters would go flying like they got hit by a ton of bricks. Then he moved into some crazy acrobatic moves, somersaulting in midair, lining up feet to faces in smooth, liquid motion that I would have sworn was some choreographed dance if it hadn't ended with full grown men screaming like they were being pantsed on the playground.

The weirdest part was when I saw a sniper off in the distance, way behind the guy's back and far outside his field of view. He squeezed off some shots at the back of the guy's head, and though I saw them coming, it was still too quick for me to even call out a warning.

He didn't need a warning. It was like he smelled them. He just moved his head to the side, and the bullets went right past him. He turned around and shot a couple of those weird weblines from his wrists. The first one knocked the sniper's gun right out of his hand, and ended by completely gluing his fingers together in that weird, sticky fluid. The second shot put a net over his head and stuck firmly to his shoulders. Caught in the web, the sniper was yanked forward as his assailant somersaulted backward, spinning another series of webs to catch all the thugs he'd already taken out. In a minute, they were hanging from the ceiling in those crazy cocoons, like insects waiting to be eaten by the Spider.

The Spider. It's hard for me to think of him as a man. He has a distinctly human body, but he doesn't move at all like a man. More like some otherworldly creature with a twisted sense of humor.

I say twisted sense of humor. The remaining thugs-that hadn't already had their keysters handed to them-started running. Gangsters who would laugh at the idea at running from the cops, turned tail and skidoodled out of there like misbehaving toddlers who saw their dad coming at them with the belt.

"Hey, where you kids goin'?" shouted the Spider. "Don't you know Thursdays are family game night? Don't you wanna play Twister with Uncle Spidey?"

They were almost out the open bay door of the warehouse when a pressurized ball of web hit the door control with precision accuracy from fifty feet away. The door slammed shut in front of them and they stopped short to avoid getting squashed.

In half a second, the Spider had leaped through the air to cover the distance between them, and was hanging by his feet from the ceiling, firing a series of web shots that stuck the fleeing felons to the ground by alternating limbs.

"Left hand green, right foot blue!" the Spider called out jovially, his webbing pinning the corresponding extremities to the floor.

"Don't forget, the winner gets to eat the last piece of birthday cake. Aww, what the hey? Cake for everybody!" He punctuated that comment by shooting webbing into the goons' mouths.

As Buddy and I started to collect our wits, the Spider lowered down on a webline to stare at us with those creepy eyes, upside down. I could barely see the outline of a man's face under the mask, but the voice made it sound like he was grinning maniacally.

"Don't forget, officers, your friendly neighborhood wall-crawler is available for all office Christmas parties, children's bouncy houses, and groovy teenage sockhops. You could call my secretary to make an appointment, but I don't have one. So, if you need me, please don't hesitate to scream."

Before I could ask him if that was a Mel Brooks reference, the Spider had skittered up the webline and disappeared into the shadows.


	2. Family Dinner Goes South

Though it was a great story to tell the kids, after several months, I hadn't thought much about my encounter with Spider-Man. It never seemed like the newspapers gave him a fair shake, always painting him as just one step above the super-creeps he fought on a regular basis, so I stopped picking up the Bugle after awhile. It wasn't until dinner with the family one night that I thought about him again.

I have two kids, a 16 year old daughter, Rose, and a 12-year-old boy, Georgie. My wife, Melina, was a gorgeous brunette who was good at everything, including making a hell of a pot roast, keeping the kids on the right track, and putting me in my place. I was enjoying some of the famous pot roast when Melina observed that Georgie was being particularly quiet this evening.

"And you've hardly touched your supper, dear," she said.

"Georgie's been acting weird lately," Rose observed, pretending not to be texting under the table. "He missed the bus home again today."

Okay, I know I wasn't paying as much attention as I should, but I don't know that I deserved the kick that Melina dealt to my shin under the table. I came back to reality, processed all the things that had been said in the past couple of minutes, and turned my attention to my son.

"All right, what gives, little man?" I asked. "You know your mother doesn't like you walking home by yourself."

"Aw, don't worry so much, Dad," Georgie said. "Me and the boys can handle anything that comes our way."

"And who are these new friends you've been hanging out with?" his mom asked.

"They're pretty weird, Mom," Rose said. "I think they belong to some kind of gang."

This got my goat immediately. "Is that true, son?"

"No!" Georgie said, a little too forcefully to be believable. "It's not a gang. We just don't take no shit from nobody."

"George Francis McDoogel!" Melina was outraged. "You will not talk that way in this house."

"Fine!" Georgie slammed his fork down. "Guess I'll go outside til bedtime then."

As the kid stormed out of the kitchen, I saw Melina start to go after him, but I put a hand on her arm. "Let me handle this one, sweety. I'll follow him, see where he goes. See if there's anything to this gang business."

Melina was livid. "He shouldn't be allowed to talk that way to us. I oughta ground him for a week when he comes back."

I stood up, hugged my wife's neck, kissed the top of her head. "Let's hold off on the punishment til I find out what's going on with him."

"If you're not both back by the end of Dancing With the Stars," Melina said. "I'll tan both your hides."

"And miss all the girls in the sexy dresses?" I said. "Not a chance."

My wife punched me playfully. I went to my room, strapped on my sidearm under my coat, and went out in the direction I saw Georgie go. I didn't really think there was much to this gang business, but in New York City, at night, one could never be too careful.

I was pretty sure that I knew most of the kids' favorite hangouts in the neighborhood, and over the next hour, I tried them all. I saw a lot of Georgie's old friends, but not Georgie himself, and none of them seemed to know where he was. Although one of them did admit that my son had been hanging out with a new, rougher crowd lately.

I could hardly believe my ears. How could my good little boy be getting mixed up with miniature hoodlums at his age? With his father a police officer, no less. Thinking of the little kid who used to walk around the house wearing my uniform, I vowed to find him and set him straight.

I pulled out my phone, dialed the precinct, talked to Vicky, and had her track my son's cell phone. The program nailed down his location to a place way downtown, which really pissed in my cheerios. If my twelve-year-old son was that far from home, he must have been getting a ride from someone. I was mad enough to pick him up in my patrol car, but I remembered my words to my wife earlier, and chose to take my civilian cruiser instead.

I pulled up to the location and found a darkened convenience store. My anger growing, I went inside, finding the place ransacked. "Georgie!" I called out, and heard a commotion from near the back. A group of boys emerged from the shadows.

"What the hell is going on here?" I asked.

The kids laughed derisively, and I felt steam coming out of my ears. "Every one of you boys is in big trouble," I warned. "Where is my son?"

There was no response other than the gang of kids surging forward, shoving past me and out into the street.

I caught myself, regaining my balance. _What the hell?_ How had they moved so fast?

I wasn't about to draw my weapon on a gang of preteens, but I exited the building in fight-mode.

"Alright, you little brats. Game time is over. Ow!"

I reached down as I felt something sharp hit my chin. My finger came away with blood.

I had just been attacked. One of those little bastards had shot a razor straight at my face. What was up with these kids?

And then, the kids jumped into the air and _started to fly away._

In a moment, there was nothing left of them except the shadows of large birds, hollering like little kids, but gliding away on wings.

Okay. This was officially freaky.


	3. Awakening

His phone turned off. The shades closed. His room a mess. He tosses in his bed and flips the pillow over to the cool side, buries his face in it.

How long has it been since she left? Two days? Three?

He wants to forget her. Wants to wipe her from his mind. But everything in waking life reminds him of her. Every smell. Every sight. Every moment he lived with her on his mind. Every dollar he earned, to build a better life for them. But it wasn't enough. The time spent away had driven a wedge between him and the person he cared about most in the world. Harsh words, spoken without thinking, left scars that might never heal. He sleeps all the time, because in his dreams, they are still together. Still happy.

But his waking mind knew that she was gone. And probably never coming back.

With every passing moment, the bills were coming more overdue. Things were getting worse out there. But he didn't care. More than anything, he wanted to give up. To close his eyes and never open them again.

There was nothing left in the world but pain. What was the point?

Noises from outside. Somehow, his window had been opened. Had he opened it when it got too hot? When was that? He couldn't remember. He wanted to reach over and shut it, but despite all of his strength, he couldn't muster the willpower.

From somewhere out there, he heard a scream.

The young man sprang from his bed like a shot. Out there was pain. But not just his pain. People being hurt. People suffering. People dying, every moment that he lay here like a useless lump.

If he gave up, what would become of them?

He dug through the pile of clothes at the back of his closet with reckless abandon, like a dog digging up the yard for a bone. It had to be here somewhere. He had buried it here, a long time ago, told her he was going to throw it out. Because she hated it. Hated what it represented. But it didn't matter anymore. She was gone now. Never coming back.

In his heart of hearts, he hated it, too. It reminded him of not being in control of his own body. The pain, the anger, the loneliness. The skin of a creature who stalked the city without pity. Without remorse. Without humanity.

His hand felt the smooth, cold fabric. His eyes fell on the black cloth as he fished it from the pile. He pulled it on, feeling it envelop his body like a second skin. His unrelenting pain bore into his brain like a surgical drill. But the suit made it better. It called to him, like the creature that it had been patterned after.

 _Let's go out there. And make them feel our pain._

Those scumbags that preyed on the weak and innocent. The ones that had stolen years of his life, had forced him to spend his days away from her, had taken away his happiness.

 _They will pay._

He stops to look in the mirror. Sees the haggard face, the sunken eyes of a man who has lost it all. A man who has given up.

 _But Spider-Man never gives up._

He pulls the black mask over his face, the completion of the ensemble, and Peter Parker—broken and defeated—disappears. Spider-Man is all that's left.

He crawls out the window into the cool, dark night and follows the screams.


	4. Bust

I dialed the precinct again, got another trace on Georgie's phone, and headed to another part of town, even farther away. My head was swimming. How had a bunch of kids gotten ahold of tech like this? Razor projectiles? Wings? It all sounded very familiar, but for the life of me, I couldn't place where I'd heard of it. It only occurred to me too late what I was really getting into.

I reached the address from the trace, finding an old, abandoned-looking building. I busted the padlock on the outer door and entered, weapon drawn. The bottom floor was deserted, so I made my way up the stairs.

After several floors, I finally heard noises coming from behind a door. I crept up next to it, put my ear to the surface and listened.

"We got a pretty good haul from that last job."

"And the wings took care of that police officer no problem."

"The boss says it's time to step up our game. He gave us maps of the Diamond District. We can hit our first one tomorrow night."

Patience has never been my strong suit. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have busted through the door with my gun drawn. "The hell you will. Georgie, you put that crazy bird crap down and come home with me right now!"

A chorus of chuckles sounded from the group of kids sitting around the table inside. In the artificial light, I could see that they were indeed wearing some kind of weird wing harnesses. "George," one of them said. "This pig is your dad?"

My eyes fell on my son at the far corner of the table. His face, at least, showed a tiny bit of shame. "How did you find us?"

"Nevermind that!" I said. "All you kids take off those freaky things and put all your weapons on the table. We're all going down to the station. Now."

"Or what?" said the largest of the gang, who looked to be about sixteen. "You gonna shoot us?"

I had just about lost my patience. Razor wings or not, I wasn't going to be pushed around by some punk kids. I crossed the space to him and snatched him by his shirt collar. "Every single one of you is gonna come along peacefully and maybe the worst we'll have to do is call your parents. If you don't, at least a couple of you can look forward to doing some time in juvy."

To my great surprise, the kid shoved me off, reached up and grabbed me by the throat, held me off the ground like I was a rag doll. "George, I'm gonna hafta teach your dad some respect for the Wake. Cuz he's not gonna like it if the boss comes in here and finds him."

And then the kid tossed me against the wall hard enough to throw my back out. I slumped there for a second, hardly able to believe what was going on.

"Best keep your mouth shut, old man," the leader said. "And I wouldn't hang around here too long. If the boss finds you, there's gonna be hell to pay."

I got to my feet and picked up my gun, pointing it straight at the little punk. "Enough out of you, smart mouth. Get on your knees. Last warning."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another one of the little gangsters flick his wrists, and a bunch of those razor feathers flew at me. I managed to duck out of the way of most of them, but my desire to keep my gun trained on the leader meant my arm took a couple of those projectiles straight on. I dropped the gun, blood running down my arm.

The hoodlums hooted and hollered. One of them snatched my gun off the ground and decked me across the shoulder with strength comparable to what the leader had hit me with moments before. Laughing, they all jumped out the window to fly away.

Georgie was the last one to leave. He turned and looked at me with a sad expression on his face. "I'm sorry, Dad. But these guys are my family now. Don't follow us again. I can't stop them from hurting you."

And my son dove out the window. I moved forward and stuck my head out, watching the bird-kids disappear into the night sky.

I was going to need some serious help.


	5. CSI: NY

Melina was livid that I was out all night. She was even more upset that Georgie had not come home. It was a rough ticket, going to work after having no sleep. It was even less fun to leave a crying wife behind.

At the precinct, I filed the paperwork for the missing person's case. I couldn't technically call it a kidnapping, since Georgie was gone of his own free will. I wasn't sure how much detail to put in the report, wondering if my superiors would think I had gone wacko if I told them my son had joined a gang of flying bird-kids.

I resisted the urge to scratch the bandage on my arm as I tapped the keys on the computer that ran the trace program. Georgie's little gang had apparently figured out that I was tracking them by his cell phone—either that or the battery had died and he hadn't bothered to recharge it. Either way, I was getting no fix on his location all morning. My next move was to go down to CSI and see what they could make of the weird little razor feathers that had mangled my arm. I went down to the basement, half expecting to see Mark Harmon and the goth girl. My joke apparently did not strike a chord with the skinny blonde woman in glasses that was actually working there.

"That's the wrong show," the woman said, not looking at me, her eyes still fixed on her computer screen. Her nametag said "Cooper."

"Okay," I said. "Officer Cooper, I know you're busy down here. But I have some evidence here that pertains to a case that's…personal for me. If you could analyze it as quickly as possible, I would be personally grateful." I hesitated. This wasn't the way I usually liked to operate, but my son was everything to me. I pulled a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet and slid it across her desk. "Like, today, if at all possible?"

Cooper actually looked away from her screen, down at the bill, then back up at me. "Are you offering me a bribe, Officer…." I guess it was just as well my badge wasn't visible and she clearly hadn't been paying attention when I introduced myself.

"McDoogel," I said. Great, my first bribe had apparently been offered to one of NYPD's few straight arrows. "I can assure you, ma'am, it's not like that." I took a breath. She might still think I was bonkers, but at least CSI probably saw weird stuff like this all the time. I took the evidence baggy out of my pocket that contained the razor feathers and placed them on her desk next to the hundred. "My son has joined some kinda gang. A bunch of kids with wings. They can actually fly. And somehow, they're stronger than normal kids. One of them lifted me right off the ground."

Her face clearly stated that she thought I was on drugs. I could imagine the disciplinary hearing now.

"Look, lady, I know it sounds crazy. But these little feather-thingies are connected to why my twelve year old son hasn't come home. His mother's worried sick. I need some major-league help."

Cooper slid the hundred spot back towards me. "Keep your money," she said. "I'll have an analysis for you by this afternoon."

"Thank-you very much," I said, retrieving the bill. "I appreciate it."

"Twelve is very young to get involved in gangs," Cooper said. "Even in this city."

"Yes," I said. "It is." I gave her my card.

"I'll let you know what I find."


	6. Visitation

A dirty, bedraggled girl of eight leaned over the railing on the balcony of her fourth floor apartment. She didn't live in the best neighborhood. She was home sick from school often. Her apartment wasn't very clean. In her hands, she clutched a small doll, her only toy left. Inside, she could hear yelling, thudding. Her mom, fighting with her newest boyfriend. She reached up, trying to close her ears to the noise, not wanting to hear what came next.

She lost her grip on her doll. She watched with horror as it went tumbling down towards the dirty alleyway below.

There was another noise, a distinctive _thwip_ sound, and the doll was gone. She squinted, leaned farther over, panicking.

Something touched her head, and she jerked up. The doll fell gently into her arms.

 _What?_

She looked around and her eyes fell on the outer wall of the apartment above her head, where a man was stuck to the sheer surface by his hands and knees, looking down at her. She knew instantly who he was. She'd seen him on TV a million times.

"Spider-Man," she said smiling. "You saved Patty."

The voice was cold and sad, not at all like she expected him to sound. "You know what they say. No child left behind."

"Are you okay?" the girl asked, dusting her doll off. "You don't sound very good. And your suit is black. I think you need to wash it."

"I slept through laundry day," Spider-Man said. More yelling erupted from the apartment inside, another crash. The little girl twitched visibly.

"Is that your mommy and daddy?" Spider-Man asked.

She shook her head. "Mommy and Joe. Her boyfriend."

"Is Joe nice to you?"

"He doesn't talk to me much," the little girl admitted. "He's not very nice to Mommy, though. I know Mommy's lonely, but…..sometimes I wish he'd go away." She ran a miniature comb through the doll's hair and looked back up, seeing only an empty spot on the wall. "Spider-Man?"

Inside the apartment, Joe had smashed an empty liquor bottle and taken a swing at the girl's mother. She had gotten out of the way, but now she was backed into a corner, sobbing and gasping.

Joe reared back to punch his girlfriend, but his fist collided with a black gloved hand. His eyes widened in surprise as he traced the arm up to the apartment's low ceiling. Mommy saw the black-clad Spider-Man on the ceiling too, and she screamed.

His hand closed on Joe's wrist, and with a single twist of his assailant's arm, Joe went flying across the room. He crashed into the far wall, leaving a visible crater.

Enraged and perhaps bereft of sense from excessive whiskey consumption, Joe hollered and got back to his feet, charging at the wall crawler who had landed on his feet on the floor.

He swung with all of his might, right, left, right again. Spider-Man could have moved easily out of the way, but he caught each blow in his open hands, stopping them cold.

"You like hitting women, do you, Joe?" the chilly voice said. "Clearly not a fan of the Red Jump Suit Apparatus."

Enraged, Joe threw another punch, but this time, when Spider-Man blocked, he didn't let go. The large man found inexorable black fingers closed on his wrist, found his arm being twisted, slowly. He howled in pain, feeling how close he was to having his arm broken.

The big man cowered, but the black masked face moved closer to his own, the otherworldly eyes opened wide, peering at him mockingly. "Do you like how it feels to be helpless? You know you're supposed to love her. _Cherish_ her. Do you know what a man who beats on a woman is to me?"

He twisted a bit more, and Joe's scream was spine-chilling.

"All this time, I've been giving scum like you a pass. The easy way out. That's more than you deserve. Cuz you're just going to go out and do it again. And if this one wises up and gets rid of you, you'll move on to the next one. Leave a trail of broken homes and black eyes in your wake. Tell me, _WHERE DOES IT END?"_

Joe's scream was continuous now, but no one in this neighborhood was going to call the cops. A few minutes more suffering for this animal would be well-deserved. A quick break was too good for him.

Then, he looked out of the corner of his eye and saw the little girl, standing in the doorway, shaking and crying silently.

Joe dropped to the ground and a web net stuck him there securely.

A _whoosh,_ a _thwip,_ and the Spider-Man was gone. Mommy went to her daughter, wrapped her in her arms, and held her until the shaking stopped.


	7. Unraveling

Melina called to let me know that the school had called, confirming Georgie was absent from school today. Her voice was shaky, but she kept the hysterics contained. My wife was a strong woman, but we'd never dealt with anything like this in our family before. The biggest problem we'd ever had with the kids was when they threw a fit and didn't get to go to Baskin Robbins.

"Don't worry, honey. I'm gonna find him. If I have to turn this city upside down, I'll find him."

My cell phone rang. It was Cooper from CSI. "I got something on your razors. It's a proprietary design that Oscorp bought a few years back. They maybe use it in some of their military contracts, but it's not something that's available on the street. The original patent was issued to Bestman-Toomes."

"Bestman-Toomes?" I said. "Should that mean something to me?"

An audible sigh on the line. "Don't you have the Daily Bugle app on your phone?"

"I stopped reading the Bugle when it was just a newspaper."

"Okay, Grandpa. I guess you're in good company, cuz Adrian Toomes is geriatric, too. He's the crime lord they call the Vulture."

It was coming together in my head. "The Vulture. The old guy with wings that Spider-Man always puts away."

"The very same. His wings are powered by an electromagnetic generator that gives him strength enough to trade punches with superhumans. But, I've never heard of him using kids before."

"Alright, Cooper. I owe you one."

"Good luck, McDoogel." The line disconnected and I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The Vulture might have been small potatoes to super-people, but he was nearly untouchable to a beat cop like me. A crime lord who had been in business longer than I'd been on the street. I needed help. And I knew just who to go to.

"You're out of your mind, McDoogel," Captain D'angelo said. "The Vulture technology isn't something you can buy at Toys 'R Us. The only prototypes that exist belong to Toomes himself. And he sure as shit isn't giving to some snot-nosed kids.

"Captain, I saw it myself. These kids are flying. These kids have super strength. We have to do something about this."

"You know how many weirdoes are flying around this city right now? A shitload. But we have a file on every single one of them. Every piece of military grade hardware came from somewhere. A bunch of snot nosed middle schoolers don't get their hands on tech like that. It doesn't happen. Look." His tone softened. "I'm sorry about your son. We're gonna keep an eye out for him. And I'm sure he'll turn up. And I don't know who decked you, but you're under a lot of stress right now." He began scribbling on some paperwork on his desk. "You're a good officer, McDoogel. I'm putting you on leave with pay. Go see a shrink. Try to unwind. Your boy will be back before you know it."

"Captain!" I growled. "You've gotta be kidding me. No officer is going to give this case the priority that I will."

"That's exactly the point, McDoogel. No other officer is going to drive themselves insane working this case. You gotta take a step back." He scribbled a signature and handed me the papers. "And that's not a suggestion."

I was fuming, but I knew better than to press it. I had seen D'angelo take officers' badges away for less disrespect than I was currently ready to hurl at him. I stormed out of the office. I would hold my tongue, but I sure wasn't gonna give up on Georgie. Active duty or not, with the NYPD's help or not, I would find him.

But first, apparently, I had to go see a shrink.


	8. Therapy

Doctor Ashley Kafka was an ethereally beautiful woman with short, black hair. Certainly I had heard of the eminent psychiatrist in charge of the Ravencroft Institute. But I never imagined she would take time out of counseling New York's most depraved mentally ill maniacs to do a session with a street cop. And I certainly didn't expect her to believe me.

"Wait a second," I said. "You don't think I'm crazy?"

"To the contrary, Officer McDoogel," her smooth voice said. "Adrian Toomes is one of my long-term patients. I am most familiar with his pathology. It doesn't surprise me at all that he would conscript children into his service."

"Really?"

"Really. It's not normally good practice to discuss one patient with another, but Adrian's profile has been the subject of two very successful dissertations I've published in psychological journals. He was never hesitant to give me permission to tell his story. He feels that the world has wronged him, and there is little he wouldn't do in his quest to even the score."

"D'angelo seems to think Toomes wouldn't trust his flying technology to children."

"That's a valid point," Kafka said. "To my knowledge, Adrian only ever created a small number of prototype flying harnesses, and he guarded them jealously. His control issues are well documented. But that is part of why I think the idea of child employees would appeal to him. Children are easy to control, and I think it well within his capabilities to craft harnesses that could be powered and regulated remotely, leaving final control of his technology firmly in his own hands."

"So, you know him better than anyone? Maybe you can help me track him down."

"I'm afraid my knowledge of his psychological profile doesn't make me any better at tracking him than anyone else. Adrian may be very old, but he has a formidable intellect, and is well connected in the criminal underworld. He has hidden from the NYPD and SHIELD for years at a time with little trouble. Additionally, I'm afraid you lack the resources to confront him directly. If you are to find your son, you will need assistance from someone with experience in this matter."

"Spider-Man." I rapped my fingers on the desk thoughtfully. "I met him once. But that was a once-in-a-lifetime accident. How am I going to find him again?"

"In my experience, you don't find Spider-Man," Kafka said. "He finds you."

"So how do I make him find me?" I mused. "He only ever said one thing to me. 'If you need me, don't hesitate to scream.'"

"Ahh," Kafka chuckled. "Robin Hood: Men in Tights. He does enjoy his Mel Brooks references." Kafka began scribbling on the pages of her clipboard. "But it occurs to me, Officer McDoogel, there may be a way to find Spider-Man. He has one secret confidante, perhaps a poorly kept secret, but nonetheless." She pulled her phone from her pocket and began tapping at it.

"Secret confidante?" I said. "Who…" I stopped short when I noticed her phone screen. "Not the Daily Bugle app. You'll be the fourth person today to call me a grandpa for not having it."

"The Bugle's editorial bias is well known, Officer McDoogel," Kafka said, holding out the screen of her phone to me. "But the pictures are simply….spectacular."

I looked at the very high resolution image of Spider-Man accompanying the article and then noticed, in tiny letters below, the line to which Kafka was calling my attention.

 _Photo credit: Peter Parker_


	9. Bugle

The Daily Bugle building was a 46 story monster at 39th and Second, and its offices were buzzing with activity. Though I was no longer in uniform in deference to my current leave of absence from the force, flashing my badge at no fewer than three individuals didn't seem to impress anyone. Everyone was too busy rushing around trying to pin down the next big story. Clearly, they were afraid of someone, but it wasn't the NYPD.

I asked several people if anyone knew how I could get ahold of Peter Parker, but the most I got was a chuckle or an eye roll. Apparently, Parker was not known for punctuality or reliability, but looking around this madhouse, it stretched the imagination that any of its employees might be.

After getting the runaround, I finally got directed to a corner office where a middle aged man with greying brown hair and glasses sat at an old-fashioned typewriter, smoking a cigarette. I came in perhaps a little more forcefully than I intended. "Ben Urich? Officer Frank McDoogel, 14th Precinct."

Urich did little more than glance up at me as he hammered away at his typewriter. "14th Precinct? How is Captain D'angelo these days?"

I broke off in surprise. "He's fine, sir."

"Still too busy to make press statements? He never did care much for public opinion. Or anyone's opinion, really."

"You got that right. Listen, Mr. Urich, I'm hoping you can help me. I need to find Peter Parker."

Urich made a noise that was halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Good luck with that. I don't think a full package of SHIELD surveillance drones could find Parker. Only place you're guaranteed to find him is on the scene of any major superhuman battle, snapping pictures. The boy has a knack for being in the right place at the right time when it comes to those brawls. It's just a shame he couldn't show up for his own wedding. Or graduation. Hell, the man will probably be late to his own funeral."

"So how do I find him, Mr. Urich?"

"You could try calling his apartment. Like we have a dozen times over the past four days. Hell, you could even go by and bang on the door. Doubt it'll do you much good. In my experience, Officer, you don't find Parker. He finds you."

"Yeah, I'm starting to get tired of hearing that."

Urich looked up at me and gave me his full attention for the first time. "Is the boy in some kind of trouble?"

I didn't think lying in this case would make a difference. "No. But it's very important that we find him as soon as possible."

At that point, a copy boy burst into the room behind me. "Ben! We got a bank robbery going down in Midtown. Early word is that we're in line for a Spider sighting."

"T minus one hour until Parker emails his pictures," Urich said. "Well, Officer, it looks like you're in luck. We now have the location of the one place you're guaranteed Parker is ever going to be." He turned to the copy boy. "Write the address down for Officer McDoogel here."

In a minute, I was out the door and hauling balls for Midtown.


	10. Stilt Man

As it turned out, the bank heist was being pulled by a so-called supervillain who was something of a joke at the department. Wilbur Day aka Stilt Man was another scientist who claimed to have been jilted out of a legitimate claim to his technology, and therefore decided to use said technology for illegal activities. His large, silvery battlesuit, jacked into the air on massive hydraulic stilts, made something of a silly sight, and I think the real reason that he gives NYPD officers any trouble is that we're too busy doubling over laughing. Today, Stilt Man had caused quite a bit of property damage and had managed to get his haul out of the bank, but had succeeded unsurprisingly in drawing a massive amount of attention to himself. A group of uniformed officers stood at his feet, firing conventional guns ineffectually at the metal goofball. There was a chopper circling overhead, taking potshots, as well, but Stilt Man only swatted at it like it was an annoying insect. Okay, so we don't technically have the hardware to take this guy out by ourselves, and the National Guard's response time was just a hair too slow, but he was easy pickings for any of the street-level superheroes that patrolled Midtown.

And just as Urich had predicted, Spider-Man was the one to take the call.

I could hear Stilt Man shouting angrily in his sniveling voice as the wallcrawler swung onto the scene like an acrobat. What struck me first was that he wasn't garbed in his traditional red-and-blue suit, but instead sported the black costume that he had worn for a spell years ago. I wished I was close enough to hear what Spider-Man was saying, but—perhaps because of the change in wardrobe—he didn't strike me as being in a very humorous mood.

My suspicions were confirmed as the webslinger proceeded to pull absolutely zero punches in taking Stilt-Man down. Swinging and leaping back and forth, he dealt out a series of blows from his fists that seemed to have brutal effect, even on a man whose face was protected by a metal suit. The villain wobbled unsteadily, and I got the impression that if not for the balancing mechanisms in his suit, he would have been toppled already.

Stilt Man then employed his trump card, pulling a large blaster that we all knew fired knockout gas. But Spider-Man was having absolutely none of that nonsense. He immediately fired a blast of webbing that gummed up the barrel, then swung in with lightning speed to cling to the armor with his feet and bend the weapon into a useless metal hulk with his bare hand. The Stilt Man barely had time to register his displeasure before Spider-Man dealt another vicious punch to his chin. The villain reeled as Spider-Man moved into a backwards somersault that flowed seamlessly into a fierce kick to the face.

Even from my far off viewpoint, I could see the kick had smashed a huge dent into the solid steel helmet. I watched as the Stilt Man wobbled on his hydraulic legs, and it was plain that, while the suit was still functioning, the operator inside was no longer conscious.

Spider-Man crawled over the suit, seemingly inspecting it, and, after a moment, found exactly what he was looking for. He reared back and punched another spot, causing a shower of sparks and smoke. He shot a webline and swung away almost leisurely. With the control mechanism shorted out, the massive battlesuit lost its balance and toppled ignominiously to the ground.

When the dust settled, there was a moment of quiet as everyone on the scene began to get their bearings. It occurred to me suddenly that, if Spider-Man followed old habits, he would make a quick joke and then swing away, and I would lose my opportunity to meet him. I had to get his attention and fast.

 _If you need anything, don't hesitate to scream._

I knew that what was overtaking me was little more than reckless impulse, but I also knew I had to act quickly. I pushed through the crowd and broke through towards the fallen Stilt Man. The recognition of my fellow officers combined with the atmosphere of general confusion meant my comrades in blue were slow to react to my sudden arrival. I knelt and found the crater in the faceplate that Spidey's foot had created. I drew my taser and fired at the fallen felon, sending maximum voltage in his face.

The villain howled in pain, but I kept pouring it on. For a moment, the other policemen were too stunned to react, then they started to approach me. I evaded their grasp, and began zigging and zagging like a football player as they tried to take me down.

"Spider-Man!" I yelled into the sky. "Over here!"

The other policemen finally got organized enough to sack me. Just as I was on the verge of being tackled, I felt an impact as something moving at high speed grabbed me. There was a rush of air and a turning in my stomach as I flew into the sky, held in the iron grip of a black clad arm and swinging from a strand of webbing at inhuman speed.

 _Perfect._


	11. Unlikely Teamup

We landed on a rooftop not far away, and I dropped to a seated position, catching my breath. I felt like I'd just gotten off a ride at an amusement park. A ride that no human was meant to be on.

"Alright fella. You wanted my attention, you got it." I recognized it as definitely the same voice as the man from the warehouse all those months ago. However, the jovial tone that characterized our previous encounter was utterly gone. The voice was cold and hard.

"Spider-Man," I said, as I regained my composure. "Frank McDoogel, 14th Precinct, NYPD. We met awhile back. You saved my partner and I from a drug bust gone bad." I paused. "You probably don't remember."

"Just a typical Tuesday afternoon for me," the webslinger confirmed. "So tell me, Officer. You wanted my attention badly enough to torture a subdued man. I take it you don't just want to catch up on old times."

"It's about my son, Georgie," I said. I reached into my wallet, pulled out a picture. "He's 12. He's a great kid, good grades, never a bad report from school. Until the other night. I found him hanging out with a new crowd. He's joined some kinda gang. He didn't come home last night."

"Sorry, but child psychology isn't exactly my specialty," Spider-Man said. "I'm not sure how you think I can help."

"This isn't just any ordinary gang," I replied. "These kids can fly with some weird kinda wings. And shoot sharp little feathers." I showed him my bandaged arm. "Also, the power packs on the wings make them stronger. I tracked them to one of their hideouts last night, and got full-body tossed into a wall by a kid no older than 15."

Spider-Man crouched low to the ground but seemed perfectly comfortable. "What you're describing is technology belonging to the Vulture, one of the crooks with whom I tangle on a regular basis. But the Vulture doesn't give his technology out to anyone. His flunkies are always ground-based. And I've never heard of him using kids before."

"That's what everyone's been telling me," I said. "Nobody was willing to take me seriously. Until I talked to your friend, Doctor Kafka. She said that using kids might fit Toomes's MO. And that he might be controlling the wings remotely."

"I suppose that's possible," Spider-Man said. "Vulture's at large, but I haven't heard from him in months. If he's using kids to do his dirty work for him, it needs to stop. I'll take him down hard. You said that you had the location of one of their hideouts?"

"I do. I'll take you there."

"Or you can just tell me where it is and I'll take care of it."

"No way. I'm a police officer, and this is my son we're talking about. No way I'm just going to sit home twiddling my thumbs waiting for you to call. Meanwhile, Georgie could be getting hurt. I'll show you where it is, you'll take me with you."

"If everything you're telling me is true, you're out of your league, buddy," Spider-Man said matter-of-factly. "You'll just get in the way. If I find your son, I'll make sure he's not hurt."

"No offense." I held up my hands. "And I really mean no offense. But you don't seem to be going out of your way not to hurt the bad guys today. I've seen you in action before, but I've never seen you brutalize anyone the way you did the stilt guy a few minutes ago."

"You're one to talk."

"I did what I had to do to get help for my son," I said. "But I don't even know you, and the way you're acting worries me. None of your usual jokes, you sound like someone just ran over your dog. And the suit doesn't exactly scream good mood."

He stared at me for a long moment, and I wondered if I'd gone over the line. If someone really had run over his dog, I might be dangling out a window here in a few seconds.

"Look, I've been a cop for awhile," I said. "My instincts are good. I might spot something that you don't. At least let's go to the hideout together. If you wanna ditch me after that, it's not like I can stop you"

"Fine," Spider-Man said. "Buckle up, buckaroo."

And then we were flying through the air again.


	12. Investigation

I directed the webslinger to the old warehouse. I would have been amazed at how little time it took us to get there—traversing New York above the traffic makes all the difference—but I was busy trying to stop myself from dry-heaving after the harrowing experience of swinging from building to building at speeds that would probably make NASA astronauts throw up.

"Could you maybe slow down next time?" I said between breaths, as we landed on the rooftop.

"That _was_ slow," Spider-Man insisted. "You're the one who had to ride along."

"Next time, I'll know better." I traversed the rooftop and found a fire escape door. It was locked. I threw my weight against it but it didn't budge.

Spider-Man ripped the door off its hinges like it was Styrofoam. He flicked a switch on his belt and illuminated the darkened corridor ahead with a flashlight that projected an image of his face. The face had the distinctive web patterns of his other suit, and I was reminded again of the black suit.

"So if you don't mind me asking," I said, following him inside. "Are you okay? You're not your usual sunny self."

"How would you know what my usual self is like?" the Spider asked. "You said we've only met once."

"Yeah, and in the five minutes I knew ya, you cracked more corny jokes than my Uncle Pete on his second six pack. Plus, I've been on the force awhile. I've known lotsa people who ran into you. They say you're always like that. One guy told me that you did an entire bit while getting your face smashed in by the Rhino."

"Everyone has off days," he said coolly, climbing onto the ceiling like it was the most natural thing in the world. We walked down the hall and came to the still-open door of the room where I had met the kids yesterday. I followed him inside.

There was a table where the kids had been sitting, some crumbs of food, cigarette butts, but not much else.

"You said they shot razor feathers at you," Spider-Man said.

"I picked them up. Gave them to our forensics girl. There may still be a couple lying around here though."

Spider-Man nodded and continued scouring the place until we found another feather on the floor. I handed it to him, and he barely had to look at it. "That's Toomes's tech all right. I've been sliced by them enough times to know." He continued his search and we found a couple more of the razors. He put them in a sample bag that clipped to his utility belt.

"I'll get these to my own lab and see what we come up with."

"You have a lab?" I said, with perhaps more disbelief than I intended.

"Me and sweet lady science." His voice sounded brighter than it had all day. "She's one girl that will never leave me."

Spider-Man was now engrossed in doing a final sweep of the scene, apparently not realizing that he had just clued me in to what was wrong with him. At first thought, it seemed kind of silly to me that a man who could punch holes in solid steel and move fast enough to dodge bullets would be mooning over some broad. Then my mind flashed back to our first meeting, when he'd lowered down from the ceiling and I'd seen the outline of his jaw beneath the mask. I looked again at the creepy black mask and focused on the shape of his face beneath.

He might move like a spider and he might have the strength of a titan, but underneath it all, he was still just a man. A man who sweat and bled and maybe even cried like the rest of us.

I was no shrink, but the life of my son was hanging in the balance. This guy, whether he knew it or not, held my family's future in his hands. I imagined how I would feel if I came home one night to find Melina had left. Hell, my son had only been gone a day and I was already hanging by a fraying thread.

"Hey, Spidey," I said. "Ya know I can get you into the NYPD forensics lab. I bet our equipment is a little more advanced than what you've got at home."

"You're right," Spider-Man said distractedly. "My home lab is kind of a mess right now. But I know where there's a better one, top of the line, best in the city."


	13. Laboratory

A brisk swing into Greenwich village later, my heart was only beating about twice as fast instead of ten times as fast like it had been on the way to the warehouse. Either Spider-Man had decided to go slower or I was more accustomed to traveling on the back of a mad acrobat.

When we arrived at Empire State University, I thought maybe Spider-Man was going to give me a clue to his identity by opening the doors with a faculty key card, but instead, he climbed down a wall and forced open a window. He then crawled back up and, without warning, threw me down and in an arc through the open window. I landed unceremoniously on my butt, and the wallcrawler flew in a moment later, landing in a perfect four point crouch.

We were in some kind of chemistry lab, and the equipment surely looked a lot more expensive than the setup our forensics department had. Spider-Man went right to work, putting samples under microscopes and flipping switches on various machines as though he had been working them all his life. This guy was definitely in his element. In only moments, he was deeply engrossed in his work, and it occurred to me that this was probably a welcome distraction from whatever was going on in his personal life. As such, I hated to interrupt, but my mouth opened and just kept on running.

"So look, I can see that you're having a tough day. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone, let it all out, ya know."

Spider-Man was peering through one of the microscopes, and I wondered how good a view he was getting through those eyelets. He answered me with a non-committal grunt, and I could tell he wasn't listening.

"I know how it is. Sometimes you get your head so wrapped up in a girl, you can't think straight. You spent so much time worrying about how she was feeling, what she was thinking….it never occurred to you what you would do if she was gone. You forget how to just live your life for you."

Spider-Man moved away from his microscope and began poking at another of his samples with a metallic instrument. When he spoke, his voice had softened somewhat. "I did spend a lot of time thinking about her. I saw her…see her everywhere. But she didn't know that. I was never home, never took the time to show her how much she really meant to me. All she saw was a guy who was always gone, always putting everyone else before her."

"Hey man, I'm a cop. I understand that. Melina…that's my wife, she still has trouble with my career sometimes. Cuz I'm always gone, and how must that be for them? Sitting at home, long hours into the night, waiting for the phone to ring with the voice on the other end telling her that I ain't coming back. I don't know how she does it, man. I know I couldn't."

"Why do you still do it then?" Spider-Man asked. "You could do anything. Be a butcher. Be an accountant. Why stay in a job that puts such a strain on your relationship? Why take the chance that you'll come home one night and she won't be there?"

"Man, you know I'd love to quit. Love to make it so my wife and kids don't have to worry about me. I'd love to stop seeing that haunted look in her eyes. She tries to hide it, but I catch it out of the corner of my eye, every now and then. But then I think of all the people I've helped over the years. It ain't even the big stuff…the riots, evacuations, the bombings, the fires. It's the little things that I remember. The domestic spats, where I get some woman away from her scumbag boyfriend, even if it's just for a night. The traffic accidents, where I get to pry people out of their cars and see the look on their faces knowing how narrowly they escaped death. The missing kids that…" I broke off, thinking of Georgie. "That I get to bring back to their families. I love it. And I hate it at the same time. I could never give it up. Could you?"

"I've thought seriously about it," Spider-Man said.

"You know, there was a night that my wife almost got the call. Well, not even a call. The last words my wife woulda ever got from me were going to be in a text, telling her that some Maggia dopeslingers had finally made her old man bite the big one." I swallowed. "If it wasn't for you, buddy, I wouldn't be here. I think if it wasn't for you, a lotta people's husbands, wives, children wouldn't have made it home. Your old lady, she may not be able to live with your job. But that's on her, not you."

There was a pause as Spider-Man fiddled with the equipment for a few long moments. Then he spoke. "Still, I can't shake the feeling that something is missing. That I sacrificed her happiness—our happiness—to hold onto this life. That there's a big gaping hole in my side that won't ever be….aha!"

"What?" I said. "What did you find?"

Spider-Man turned to a nearby desktop computer and began typing furiously. "Manufacturing markers in the feathers. They're Toomes's design all right, but they're not from his prototypes. They're being manufactured by a very specific process that's only in use in a handful of facilities in New York. And once my silicate sample analysis is finished, I should get a general idea of the factory's location."

"You're gonna tell what part of the city the factory's in by the dirt they left behind?" I said in disbelief.

"I've taken a lot of samples over the years," he replied simply.

It had never occurred to me that the Spider-Man would be a scientist, as well, but then I thought back to the first time I saw his red-and-blue costume and mused that only a huge nerd would create something like that.

Something beeped on his belt and I glimpsed him tapping on something that looked like a smartphone with antennas coming out of it. "Turn on your scanner," he said.

I flipped on my police scanner and fiddled with the dials until I came across the traffic. A burglary in progress in the Diamond District. "You gotta take me with you," I said.

"Fine, McDoogel," he said. "Get on my back. And hold on tight. We're gonna take a shortcut."

I dubiously climbed onto the superhero's back. "Shortcut?"

That was when I learned about the web slingshot. By being propelled by one. Across several city blocks. Many stories high.

After a bonkers, balls-out web-sling across town, we were in the Diamond District, and I had motion sickness.

Maybe motion sickness was understatement. It took almost a full minute after I slid off the wallcrawler's back that the world stopped spinning. I caught my breath and checked my pockets to make sure nothing had fallen out.

"How…" I panted. "Why…" I huffed a few more times. "Are we there already?"

"I told you, when you ride with me, sometimes things get bumpy," he said offhandedly. Without another word, he crouched down and crawled across the rooftop and down the side of the building.

I stuck my head over the ledge after him. I guess I had to make my own way down.

Rain started falling as I took out my baton and went to work on the padlock on the rooftop door.


	14. To Foil a Heist

Hanging upside down, Spider-Man peered through the window of the building. Though he could see only the vague outlines of shadows inside, his spider-sense told him all he needed to know about the intruders. Seven of them, each packing enough power to register as a threat.

He gently tore the window open and crawled inside, still on the ceiling.

Inside, seven of the wing-wearing, child gangsters paused in their task of ransacking jewel cases to spin around at the sound of the opening window. They shone their flashlights in the darkened room, but saw nothing.

"Who's there?" said one of the older boys, trying to sound tough.

A flash of lightning from the storm brewing outside lit up the room, and above their heads, they all saw the black figure clinging to the ceiling.

"It's the wallcrawler!" one of the boys shouted. "Just like the Boss said."

A flurry of razor sharp feathers flew at the ceiling, but Spider-Man was already in motion, bouncing off the wall behind them and lightly tapping two of the kids as he came forward. The other boys scattered as their comrades toppled forward.

"I know this is probably your first foray into the job market," Spider-Man said. "But you didn't pick a very good company to start with. Take some free career advice from someone who started working at a young age. Having a jerk for a boss can make your life miserable." He spun a web net over the top of the retreating hoodlums. "Just hope yours never starts sending robots after you."

His spider sense tingled, and he turned around to see the fallen kids standing again. "Our boss gives the good stuff to us, webhead." Spider-Man was taken aback by their boldness, even more so when the two jumped on him with surprising strength. His spider-sense had warned him they were formidable opponents, but his brain still had trouble processing that they were mere children.

Then the kids trapped by the web net escaped, slicing through it with the razor tips of their wings. In a moment, they were all on him, and the webslinger was caught off guard.

That was when McDoogel burst through the door of the room, gun drawn. "Freeze!" he shouted, and the kids stopped and turned to regard this new threat. At the very edge of the group, the officer recognized his son.

"Georgie," McDoogel said. "It's okay. You don't have to do this anymore, son. You can come home with me. Everything will be okay."

"George ain't goin with you, old man," one of the older kids said. "He belongs to the Wake now."

"What is that? A cult?" McDoogel asked.

"A wake," Spider-Man said. "Is the name for a group of vultures." He took advantage of the distraction to launch himself out of the fray and back to the far wall. "I know you kids think Toomes is a nice old guy who gives you presents, like Santa Claus, but believe me. You'll end up on the naughty list if you keep working for him."

The largest of the kids spoke. "Remember what the Boss said. Don't let him distract you with his talking. Coordinate your attack. Attack Pattern Echo Five. Get him!"

Spider-Man bobbed his head. "Oh boy, Pattern Echo Five! Take down the walker, Wedge!"

And then Spider-Man somersaulted into the middle of a gang of super-strong kids with razor wings.

All I could do was duck and cover from the feathered flurry of combat. I think one of them tried to shoot Spider-Man with some kind of gas, but he moved out of the way as though he'd known it was coming since yesterday. The gas hit another of the bird-kids, who promptly passed out, but a little backspray entered the air around me. Suddenly, time seemed to slow down, and I could see with perfect clarity, the webslinger dancing around the clumsy blows of his foes, deftly avoiding the flying razors. Even knowing the danger these kids possessed though, I still winced when I saw Spider-Man's fists connect with their faces.

An impulse took hold of me as the lightning flashed outside, backlighting what would probably be a once-in-a-lifetime view for me. I quickly reached for my smartphone-camera and began to take a series of wild shots in a completely unprofessional manner. There was probably no chance any of the pictures would come out.

In a minute, Spider-Man had taken down the entire gang with nary a scratch on him. The last kid froze like a deer in the headlights, and, to my surprise, Spider-Man froze, too.

That was when I realized it was Georgie. And that's when Georgie turned and dove out the window.

Spider-Man leaped after him, and I ran and looked out the window, following their trails upward. Georgie was moving high into the sky, and Spider-Man leaped after him, higher and higher, launching himself off structures and supports in rapid succession. Only a few feet higher, and open skies.

Spider-Man took one final leap from the highest elevation he could reach and rocketed towards Georgie. My son saw him coming and tried to move out of the way, but the webslinger was coming up too fast and he caught hold of Georgie's ankle.

Georgie began dipping and diving, losing his momentum. "Fool, you'll kill us both," Georgie yelled.

"Oh sonny, if I had a nickel for every time I've heard that one, I wouldn't owe $60,000 in student loans right now." Spider-Man tried to grab hold of him, but the strength from Georgie's harness and his fear of going splat made him fight hard enough that the webslinger couldn't subdue him.

Spider-Man watched the ground rushing towards them, mentally calculating how long it would be before the kid ended up a splatter on the sidewalk. It looked like it was time to move to Plan B.

With 1.8 seconds remaining, Spidey stuck a tracer on the kid and let go.

Georgie flew upward and away.

Spider-Man shot a webline and swung around in an arc to land next to me.

"You let him go," I said.

"No," Spider-Man said. "He'll go where all good little hench-persons go. Back to the boss's lair." He whipped out the smartphone-with-antennas. "And I'll soon know exactly where that is."

"Awesome," I said. "So we follow the signal, you take out Toomes, and I get my son back."

Spider-Man was tapping buttons on the device. "Nope."

"Whaddya mean, nope?

"When Georgie gets back to the lair, Toomes is going to find the tracer and know that I'm coming. That will give him all the time he needs to either move or prepare for our battle. Every second I waste is a second I'm not spending at home getting my electromagnetic web fluid and then getting the drop on Vulchy."

"I'm going with you," I said with deadly certainty.

"No way," Spider-Man said. "You would slow me down way too much. If you want me to save your son, I need to get ahead of Toomes. Go home, get some rest, let me do my thing."

"Listen, webslinger, I gave you Toomes. You would have never known he was operating if it wasn't for me. You owe me. Let me in on this."

"Sorry, McDoogel, but the first rule of lair-storming is never to bring additional civilians that the big boss can use as hostages. It just makes my job more complicated. And I've run out of time to debate this with you." He shot a webline, and jerked his head back to look at me. "You were right. I can't blame myself for her leaving. We'll always hate the job and we'll always love it. But we can't ever give it up." He paused and looked at the sky. "Georgie's going to be okay."

And then he swung away on the web, accelerating to a speed that would put bullet trains to shame.

Crap.


	15. Teacher's Pet

I walked in the thunder and rain for a minute, my shoulders slumped. I pictured Georgie, being the object of a tug-of-war match between two insane superhumans. At the critical moment, Spider-Man had left me behind, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

I saw a cab, hailed it, and got in, mumbled something about Greenwich Village. I had to get back to ESU. Spider-Man had been in the process of narrowing down the location of Toomes's factory before we got the call about the diamond heist. All I really needed to do to figure out where they'd gone was to finish what he started.

I berated myself instantly for that notion. I may have been a decent detective, but I had no idea how to operate three fourths of the equipment in that lab. Even if I could somehow get access, get inside, and figure out the problem, I would never complete all of those tasks in time.

I had the cabbie let me out at Empire State and hurriedly made my way to the Science Department. It was easy to find the right building. The window we'd gone through was still hanging open. I briefly considered climbing up there, but then I heard a noise coming from the open window. I found the building entrance unlocked, entered, and hurried up the stairs.

Inside, poring over the displays was a middle-aged, brown haired man, wearing a lab coat and missing an arm. He looked up to regard me cautiously. "Can I help you?"

I flashed my badge and quickly explained who I was. I finished with, "You may find it hard to believe, but the man who was using your lab was—"

"Spider-Man. I know," the man said. "I'm Doctor Curtis Connors. I've worked with the wallcrawler in an unofficial capacity for several years."

"So you know who he really is?" I said.

Connors shook his head. "Not a clue. But I think we are among the few who know there is a brilliant mind behind that mask. I spent my life developing a biochemical serum that had some unintended effects on a test subject. In a matter of hours, Spider-Man reverse engineered the formula and developed a cure."

"So do you think you can help me complete his evidence analysis?" I said.

Connors turned to the screen. "In point of fact, I already have. If I'm not mistaken, he was going to cross reference the manufacturing markers on these projectiles with soil samples to determine where they were created."

I whistled. "Looks like Spidey ain't the only genius here."

"I may not know the man beneath the mask," Connors said. "But years of collaborating with him have given me an insight into his methods. I daresay that he has taught me nearly as much as I've taught him." A piece of paper shot with a groan out of a nearby printer. Connors handed it to me. "The soil sample comes from the East River area. There is only one factory in that vicinity that uses the manufacturing processes indicated by the markers on the feathers. Incidentally, it's been out of business for a few months."

"Thank you so much, Doc!"

"I don't suppose you would thank me by leaving my name out of your report?" Connors asked.

"Don't worry, Doc," I said on the way out. "I'm not even officially on duty. No one will ever hear your name from me."

I didn't have time to hear Connors's response as I was already halfway down the stairs.


	16. Lair

Adrian Toomes's factory on the East River was 14 stories tall. Inside the building, each floor was cluttered with rows of noisy, smelly machinery. In some places, the only thing separating one floor from another was a rickety walkway or hanging metal ladder.

At the top of the building, in the crow's nest, was Toomes himself. With his bald head, hawk-like features, and pointy nose; he was as unmistakable as his namesake. Though Toomes was older than a lot of men plodding around New York's retirement homes, his body and mind were still as nimble as ever.

Georgie and two of the other kids stood next to him, their heads bowed low in shame.

Toomes was twirling a small piece of metal in his fingers, watching the light glint off it. He turned his attention to Georgie. "Foolish boy!" he snarled. "Did you not realize that the Bug was putting one of his infernal tracking devices on you?"

To his credit, the child remained silent, not whimpering or stammering any excuses. Toomes stared at him for a few moments until his temper softened. "Don't worry, my child. If you continue to show your loyalty to the Wake, the deactivation of your wing-pack will only be temporary.

"Now Spider-Man knows where I am, but he is unprepared for the dangers he will face. Gabriel!" he called out to one of the older child gangsters perched nearby. "Crank the factory up to maximum and go to High Alert. The webslinger is on his way."

A voice from nearby made Toomes jerk his head to the side. "Not just on his way, Adrian. Your old pal Spider-Man has already made the scene."

Toomes pointed a long, bony finger at his nemesis, clinging to the ceiling nearby. "You may think you have the element of surprise, Spider-Man. But the Vulture has planned for your arrival!" All around him, the machines began to crank up at once, louder and faster than before. "Ahh, I see you wore the black costume this time. If you're trying to intimidate me, you won't do it by changing your clothes like….like, Paris Hilton."

Spider-Man shot a webline at the Vulture's face. "Adrian, you've updated your references to something past the 1940s. I'm impressed. Hanging out with kids has actually done you some good."

The Vulture caught the racing webline with a lightning slash of his wing. "That isn't all I've updated. Attack, my children!"

From all around them, dozens of wing-harness-wearing children swarmed at Spider-Man. He dropped down a few levels to give himself more room to maneuver. There were easily twenty times as many kids as the Diamond District, but Spider-Man looked as though he was having the time of his life…dodging, dipping, twisting, dancing around and sometimes through various pieces of machinery.

Spider-Man leaped through a chamber containing an activated series of large, motorized blades. Two of the Vulture kids were foolish enough to follow him. The first kid realized his mistake the first time he was nearly impaled. Though Toomes's harnesses cranked their strength and stamina to superhuman levels, their reflexes were nowhere near as fast as the wallcrawler's. The first kid turned and went back the way he came, managing to avoid any cuts on his body, but getting one of his wings torn in half.

The second kid was so intent on catching Spider-Man, he didn't realize that the moving blades were destroying his wings until it was too late. Spider-Man realized it though, and he turned back to grab the flailing boy before his body got sliced and diced.

Spidey got the kid clear, managing to only take a couple of superficial cuts on his own body. He had barely a moment to take stock of his injuries before he was diving through another storm of vulture kids. "Two down," he muttered. "Only a couple hundred at most to go."

He bounced crazily from wall to ceiling to wall to ground to ceiling to ground to ceiling to ground. He flipped into a small alcove just ahead of another slash from a pair of wings. He opened the devices strapped to his wrists. "Time to switch to electromagnetic webbing, formula 4.2," he said to himself as he switched out the cartridges.

Then Spider-Man flipped back into open air and began spinning massive nets of webbing around his opponents.


	17. Inspiration

It had only taken fifteen minutes to get from Greenwich Village to the factory on the East River with the flashing light I stuck on top of my civilian vehicle. As I jumped out of the car at the address Connors had given me, though, I pushed down the sinking feeling that I was already too late.

I'd never been to a supervillain's lair before, and Toomes's factory did not let me down. More than any other place I had ever visited, it was filled with machines whose functions I could not guess at, but regardless struck me as being dirty and in disrepair. The whole place was whirring and clunking and clattering and scratching and whistling at such a revved up pace, it seemed like a giant engine about to explode. I couldn't help but think that if I had a Spider-Sense, it would be going crazy right now.

Sneaking around the factory afforded me a few glimpses of Spider-Man fighting with the vulture kids. I marveled as he suddenly disappeared and reappeared out of nowhere, spinning a huge web around the kids that seemed to cause their wings to short out. In short order, many of them were tumbling into the nets, rendered helpless children once more. I learned later that Spider-Man's electromagnetic webbing disrupted the signals that their anti-graviton generators were receiving from their boss.

High above it all, Adrian Toomes stood in the Crow's Nest, cackling in a manner that sounded for all the world like an angry bird I'd once heard at the zoo.

This was the scum that had taken my son. It was time to put this dirtball to rest.

Then, from across the building, I spotted something, and realized my chance had come.


	18. Showdown

Dozens of vulture kids fell into the waiting web nets as their power packs lost signal from Toomes's central generator.

High above, the Vulture took flight across the top floor of the factory. He was stopped in his tracks though, when a fresh web net shot up to intercept his path.

Vulture floundered for a moment, tangled in the web, until he got his bearings and slashed clear of it with his wings. No sooner was he free, though, then he took a superpowered punch to the jaw from a black gloved fist that sent him reeling.

"Your electromagnetic web may have foiled my children, wallcrawler," he snarled. "But you'll find that I've enhanced my personal tech to be immune to your old tricks."

Swinging upside down from a webline, Spider-Man regarded him coolly. "Adrian, Adrian. Just when I think there's some hope for you, you come back with a scheme to _enslave_ _children._ What would your grandson think? Are you going to let more good people like Nathan Lubensky die because you can't keep your greed in check?"

The Vulture lunged at him with fresh fury, and not even Spider-Sense could prevent the hero from taking the blow. "Don't you say his name, you self-righteous buffoon!"

The two superhumans engaged in a flurry of fists, feet, and feathers…a battle amped up by years of personal enmity between longtime foes.

"Spider-Man!" hollered a voice from across the massive room. The two combatants stopped and turned their attention to the crow's nest, where two of the vulture kids held Georgie in a tight combat grip, razor wingtips pressed to his throat. "Back off the boss, or your buddy gets it!"

"You kids really don't wanna do this!" Spider-Man protested, but the distraction was enough to allow the Vulture to break free from the melee and head toward his intended destination: a large machine that looked somehow out of place among the other factory equipment.

The ever-confident hero hesitated for the first time since I'd met him, and I knew it was time to strike.

On the wings of a vulture, salvaged from the factory below, I swooped into the crow's nest and grabbed the thugs by their collars.

I tossed them off the platform, feeling my own strength enhanced by the electromagnetic fields pulsing from the antigraviton generator.

The child thugs tried to fight back, but the tables had officially turned. My own strength, comparatively superior to a preteen's, was now amplified into the same range. I tossed them around like rag dolls with a great feeling of satisfaction.

Freed to act, Spider-Man was now pursuing Toomes to the mysterious machine, but this proved to be a bad idea. As the Vulture fired up the machine, a strange hum radiated outward, and sparks began to fly from the webslinger's wrists.

"Just like all my enemies, you seek to use MY technology for your own gains, Spider-Man. Perhaps next time you will think twice about pitting your intellect against mine."

"Adrian, you clever old buzzard," Spider-Man said, even as the sparks coming from his webshooters started to sputter into flames. "A whole new electromagnetic generator, uniquely calibrated to make my special web fluid turn combustible." Quick as a flash, he tore the webshooters off his wrists and flung them at the Vulture, seconds before they all-out exploded.

Toomes managed to shield his face from the blast, but the impact blew him back into the new generator. His flight suit was damaged, his skin was burned, but the old-timer recovered remarkably quickly, swiping his razor wings in deadly arcs in adrenaline-fueled rage. "You'll stop this machine over my dead body, Bug!"

The nearby web net burst into flames. "Oh no," Spider-Man said. "As the field expands, all of my webbing is going to ignite. Including…..the kids." He dove downward, lobbing off the walls, no less agile for missing his primary weapon.

I landed in the crow's nest and put my hands on Georgie's shoulders. "Son, are you all right?"

"Dad," my son sniffed and I marveled that a kid his age could have kept the tears from coming all this time. "I'm so sorry. Can we go home?"

Then a massive shadow fell over us, and Toomes hovered there, the full span of his blackened wings extended, his skin scorched, the fire of rage in his eyes, looking for all the world like some demonic fallen angel.

"I'm sorry, Officer." The words came out in an otherworldly growl. "But your son is _mine_ now."

"Like hell!" I replied and leaped at the old man.

Though there wasn't much thinking going on during my fit of rage, in the back of my mind, I must have thought that my electromagnetically enhanced strength must be superior to that of some geriatric old geezer. Chalk it up to either years of fighting experience, or perhaps the fact that his own harness was designed to be superior to the manufactured ones, but as soon as the old man recovered from my surprise attack, he gave me a sound thrashing.

I tumbled from his final blow, covered in cuts and bruises, and hovered a few stories below, panting with desperation. All around me, fires had erupted and the machines that previously sounded like they were going into overdrive now sounded dangerously close to utter combustion. The whole place was going to go up soon. And there was still one invincible, homicidal maniac flying between me and my son.

"And now, Officer McDoogel, it's time to put an end to this little game," the Vulture said, flying toward his crow's nest. "I'll deactivate your harness, and you'll die with the rest of these miserable nippers." He paused and began to frantically twist his head around. "Wait! Where's my controller?"

Another voice echoed in the chamber, one that unmistakably belonged to George McDoogel. "You mean this controller, Boss?" my son shouted.

Both of our heads jerked to another platform, where Georgie, decked out in a fresh harness, held a controller in his hands. "The one that can depower our harnesses? Or crank them up to the same power level as yours?" With a manic grin, he twisted the dials, and a screeching hum pierced our ears.

"Fool!" Toomes said, covering his ears. "You can't turn the power settings up that high. You'll blow the harness, kill us all!"

"If I had a nickel for everytime someone told me something like that, my piggybank wouldn't be empty," Georgie said, and he rushed at Toomes with speed that, to my eyes, seemed to rival the Spider-Man's.

For a few seconds, I got to watch the hilarious sight of my twelve-year-old son beating the tar out of one of New York's most feared supercriminals, before everything went to hell. Georgie's harness exploded, engulfing both him and Toomes in flame. Before I could cry out, my own harness exploded, and then, seemingly every machine around me started to blow in rapid succession.

Flames licked my skin. Burning brightness. A feeling of falling. Falling a long way. Then blackness.

Blackness.


	19. Perseverence

I returned to consciousness to feel my body being carried. I coughed repeatedly, choking on smoke. I forced my eyes open to watch as the flames and smoke faded. I gasped, gulped clean air as my body was laid down on concrete.

Sirens in the distance. I rolled over, to find my son sitting next to me, shivering, bruised, burned, maybe in shock. But very much alive.

And lined up on the ground next to him were several dozen children in similar states.

"Did you get them?" I said to the black-clad figure standing over me. "Did you save them all?"

"No way to know," the voice said grimly. "I got all the ones from the web nets free in time. But my Spider-Sense tells me there's still one person left in the building."

"Toomes," I said, and I watched in horror as my savior turned to head back into the blazing factory.

"What are you doing!" I yelled. "He's not worth it. How many times have you offered that scumbag a second chance? How many times has he spat on your kindness and went back out into the City to kill and steal? To use kids for his twisted schemes? Let that bastard die."

Those weird white eyelets peered at me, but instead of seeing the impassive gaze of the mask, for a moment I imagined I saw the kind, compassionate eyes of the man beneath it. "Against all odds, you never gave up on your son. You tortured a man, fought an army of child henchmen, and faced down a supervillain alone. You never gave up. And neither can I."

"That's different!" I practically yelled. "He's my son, and he just got led astray. That thing in there isn't even a man anymore. He's a sociopath."

"How long have you known your son?"

"Twelve years," I sputtered. "His whole life."

"I've known Adrian Toomes for fourteen years. Ever since I first put a costume on. For better or worse, he's my responsibility. And I'm not giving up on him."

With that, he hurled himself at the wall of the factory, and dove into an open window.

Moments later, the building exploded into an inferno.

I stared at it numbly.

Georgie started crying, and I held my son close to my chest, covering his face, so he wouldn't see the funeral pyre of the man who had saved our family.


	20. Last Call

One intense family reunion at Midtown General Hospital. Two weeks of family therapy with Doctor Ashley Kafka. And one day of rest with the whole family later, I went back to work and Georgie went back to school.

I sat in my patrol car in the parking lot at Georgie's school, eating a submarine sandwich and watching people go by. My phone beeped, a Skype call. I accepted it to find the pretty face of Doctor Kafka looking back at me. "Doc!" I said cheerily. "How's life in the insane asylum?"

"Not as crazy as you might think, Officer McDoogel," Kafka said. "I thought you might want to know that one of my patients sends their regards."

"Did Black Cat come through? I always knew she had a thing for me."

Kafka laughed. "No, McDoogel. This patient was transferred into my care this morning. He's booked for an extended therapy session before he's transferred to the Raft next month."

My eyes widened. "You don't mean Toomes? There's no way anyone could have survived that blast."

"To quote Mr. Toomes." Kafka gave a surprisingly good impression of the Vulture's voice. "' _That blasted bug has always had a knack for crawling out alive.'"_

I sat back in my seat, and it felt like I'd just let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "Have you heard from him?"

"No, Officer. And frankly, I hope not to. I have a lot of work to do now with my returning patient. I may even have another paper to publish. May I call you for a quote?"

"Any time, Doc."

The call ended, and my police radio burbled.

As I put the car into gear, I thought I saw a flash of red and blue on the rooftops nearby.

I turned my head all around, but saw nothing.

It was time to get back to work.

High above on the city skyline, the Spider-Man watched the cop car pull out into traffic. He peeled back his red glove, checked his web cartridges, then shot out a line, swinging away into the concrete jungle.


	21. Epilogue

**Epilogue: Daily Bugle**

The door to J. Jonah Jameson's office burst open, and Peter Parker entered with the awkward confidence of a nerd who had found his cool in college.

"Mr. Jameson! I never received my paycheck for those pics for the Vulture fight. Were you wanting to give me the cash in person, so you could tell me that they were Pulitzer quality?"

"Parker!" Jameson howled. "How many times have I told you not to interrupt me when I'm in a meeting! I got those pics in my e-mail yesterday. They were steaming piles of crap compared to the one we ran on the front page!"

"Front page?" Parker screwed up his face as Robbie Robertson pushed a copy of the latest Bugle into his hands. A photo of Spider-Man, somersaulting in midair amidst a group of Vulture kids, against a backdrop of lightning. An accidental work of art.

The byline read, "Photo courtesy: Officer Francis McDoogel."

Peter's face fell.

"Now get out of my office, you miserable swamp rat!" Jameson hollered as he pushed Peter towards the door. "And next time, try doing some actual work before you come in here begging for charity!"

* * *

 ** _Riker's Island_ Supervillain Prison**

Two guards stand in front of a cell, peering through tempered glass at the prisoner, a frail, old, bald man in a white hospital gown with an unfortunately long nose.

"I still don't understand," the rookie guard said. "Why does this tiny little, hundred-year-old geezer merit a cell in maximum security?"

The older guard scoffed. "Kid, ain't you never heard of this guy?"

"Some doof in a bird costume."

"This doof in a bird costume got put into medium security the first time they hauled him in. The first night he was there, both of his neighbors hung themselves."

"Big deal."

"Big deal yer damn right," the older guard said. "They moved two new neighbors in on night 3. By morning, one of them had hung himself, the other had swallowed his tongue. They let him out for rec, another inmate throws himself off the catwalk, thinks he can fly."

"You seen all this happen yourself?" the younger man said skeptically.

"Seen? Shit." The older guard spat a wad of Copenhagen into a cup. "Dare you to go talk to him."

The younger guard approached the cell, but the older one stopped him. "He won't look at you. You have to play him a song."

"What song?"

A few moments later, the younger guard again approached the cell. He waved his arms within clear view of the prisoner, but the old man only sat on his bed, staring straight ahead. Reluctantly, the guard activated the cell's broadcast system and began to play some old-timey jazz.

Toomes jerked his head abruptly, birdlike, to stare straight at his visitor.

"Good evening," came the ragged voice through the speaker.

"Hey, old man," the guard said. "I just came to ask you. How is it that a wrinkly, little old fart like you could be the badass gangster that gets all these young punks to avert their eyes when they walk past you? No offense, man, but I just don't see it."

"What is your name, Officer?"

"C.O. Foreman, to you, inmate."

"C.O. Foreman," Toomes said thoughtfully. "I wonder if you would be good enough to leave the lights on tonight."

"No way, inmate. Lights out for you at 10:00, just like every other prisoner on this island."

"Ah, but you see, C.O. Foreman, you don't understand. When the lights go out is when the little spider robots crawl out of the walls. And they talk to me, C.O. Foreman. Every night, they talk to me."

"Umm, okay, inmate," Foreman said skeptically. "What do the little robots say?"

"They say that I'm going to join them. Or….they're going to join me. And we're going to crush Spider-Man once and for all!" Toomes then erupted into a fit of what sounded like half-coughing, half clucking.

"What is wrong with him?" Foreman asked the older guard.

"He's laughing."

"It sounds like he's about to cough up a hairball."

"I'm gonna call Medical down here, just in case," the old guard said. But Foreman's eyes were transfixed on the tiny, old codger.


End file.
